There are no winners when it comes to war. The victors are as scarred as the dead.
I was not familiar with Wilfred Owen and his glorious poetry until well after I’d left school. We never studied him – more’s the pity.
England’s best poet? Well maybe. Certainly nobody else was a better war poet.
He describes all the patriotic idealism of the young men that set off for that distant front full of valiant ideas of glory, the waves of the tearful young girls, leaving behind the green fields of England.
But there was no glory, no courageous fight – just the senseless death and anonymous end in the sucking mud and the explosions of shells.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
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